


Distorted

by dulcemori



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Confusion, Consent Play, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Mind Games, Romance, kink bingo, non-con, not what it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcemori/pseuds/dulcemori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows that he’s in Malfoy’s captivity, that he’s wandless, under a spell or drugged — perhaps even poisoned. His limbs are heavy and his skin over-sensitive, amplifying every touch, every degree of external temperature. There’s a nauseating feeling of malaise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distorted

**Author's Note:**

> Not really what it seems based on the tags. Many thank yous to my beta-friends, R & K, who I’m constantly shoving OC’s between, creating myself a comfy little rock on which to lean.  
> Word Count in this oneshot is just over 3000
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all recognisable things herein belong to JK Rowling, WB, Bloomsbury, and a bunch of other people whose hands are in Jo’s cookie jar.  
>  **Warnings:** This is a fill for kink bingo. It contains dubious consent, non-con, and/or not-really-what-it-seems-con(?). Please keep this in mind when deciding whether or not to read. Adult language, adult situations, something that can be construed as drug use in that there is mention of a mind-altering substance of sorts. Also, fucking. M/M

****  
  


It starts low in Harry’s belly, this strange and unfamiliar twist; a slow stir that rises all the way up his body like a blazing inferno, the heat of which dries his throat and robs his mind of all coherent thought. He tries to speak, but the word on his lips comes out more as a breathy whisper, a plea that could just as easily mean _more_ as it could _stop._

And which of those does he want, Harry wonders.

He blinks his eyes, squints as he peers around as much as possible in his confined position. If only he could reach his wand. There’s a faint murmur of tinny syllables, a mocking chuckle. Harry turns his head again enough to see from his periphery that it’s Draco Malfoy who’s pinning him to the wall, twisting Harry’s arm behind his back, held too tightly to wriggle free. His words feel hot on Harry’s neck and he’s pressed so closely that Harry can feel the rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest against him.

It’s wrong, he knows, so fucking wrong, but he can’t help the reaction it elicits from him, the way Malfoy has him trapped with his body. His cock begins to fill and he finds himself pressing back against Malfoy like some wanton fucking whore, a small moan escaping his lips even with his face pressed to the wall in front of him.

There’s a moist heat on Harry’s ear, another soft laugh that’s chased away by words he can’t quite understand, and a hot tongue he isn’t sure he wants. Fingertips dig painfully into his bare hip, icy and careless against skin that seems to be afire with sensation. His only reprieve from the _too hot_ and _too fucking cold_ is the small amount of time it takes for Malfoy fingers to sneak around Harry’s waist and undo the clasp of his belt before pushing his jeans down.

“Please,” Harry says, voice raspy and low, unrecognisable even to his own ears. “Don’t.” He shifts slightly in a feeble attempt to free himself, or possibly just reach for his wand to stop this before it escalates. “Stop!”

He isn’t sure what he expects after that, but the surge of cold air that rushes to cover the empty space behind him as Malfoy releases his arm and moves away certainly isn’t it.

Harry gasps, sucking in great lungfuls of air as if he’s been suffocating, though he knows that isn’t the case.

A forceful hand returns to his hip, another gripping his wrist painfully tight and tugging roughly. Malfoy walks backwards down a long, dark hallway, gaze trained determinedly on Harry as he pulls him along. His eyes seem to gleam with mischief, his smile so open and relaxed that somehow it’s even more unnerving to Harry.

They pass through a doorway into a room that’s warm and bright, almost inviting. Heavy drapes hang in windows that occupy the entire length of one wall, drawn mostly closed, which allows in long, vertical slats of daylight that cast their golden glow across the room, painting it to resemble prison bars. Harry drags his heels but it seems to be useless. There’s a small niggling voice somewhere in the recesses of his mind telling him to remember, _remember,_ but he doesn’t know what it is that he’s forgotten.

A large bed in the centre of the room is adorned with plush pillows and puffy white blankets that bear the likeness of clouds. He doesn’t know how this is happening, how he’s allowed himself to be lead to this ominous room and coaxed onto the bed on his hands and knees.

Malfoy moves to the bedside table and sets something down, but it isn’t Harry’s wand like he’d foolishly hoped. It isn’t even Malfoy’s wand. It’s a small twist of paper, bulky in the centre as if it’s a wrapped sweet. Malfoy rummages through the drawer, collecting some things in his hand, and even though Harry has a vague memory of what it may be, his body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with him. He can’t convince his legs to move, his arms to push, can’t _make_ himself run away. It’s as if a tiny part of himself, something deep inside, is anchoring him down.

He focuses instead on the softness of the blankets beneath his fingertips, the cool cotton and the tiny stitches of quilting holding the cloud together. It’s so brilliantly white and clean that Harry suddenly feels as though the bed itself is conspiring against him, mocking him with its purity and cleanliness when Harry knows, _knows,_ what’s about to happen to him.

His mind is hazy, jumping from one thought to another and unable to hang on to one stream long enough to trace it backwards to a coherent understanding. Malfoy continues to speak to him in what seems to be a calm, soothing tone, belying the way he handles Harry; rough fingers and painful pinches and cruel shoves until he’s positioned the way that Malfoy wants him to be.

“Don’t move,” he growls, and this, Harry _does_ understand. Whether it’s the authoritative force of his tone or the press of what feels like Malfoy’s wand against the back of Harry’s neck that’s more persuasive, he can’t be certain.

Harry trembles as Malfoy drags it down his spine, a trail of magic prickling his skin in its wake. A firm hand grips Harry’s shoulder as the wand tip is dragged roughly over his bare arse. Harry trembles at the implication of what Draco means to do, what he’s capable of with Harry in this vulnerable state. He thinks he says something to Malfoy, tries to protest or perhaps threaten, but even his own voice sounds disjointed to him now; a jumble of sounds and fractured syllables that make no sense but for the terror filling the empty spaces in his cognizance.

His limbs feel weak and strained, reluctant to hold him, but just as he’s about to give in and collapse onto the soft bed beneath him, there’s a sharp slap on his arse and another demand to “stay put, don’t fucking move.”

He feels as though he’s under a spell, which is likely, given how little he remembers. He’s drawn from his cloudy attempt at recollection by another slap, and then the steel-hard length of what could only be Malfoy’s cock is being pressed against Harry’s arse crack.

A gentle shiver turns to full on quaking as his body protests in fear. He should fight, kick, punch, bite, or, better yet, find his fucking wand, but some infuriating part of him seems to be too curious for any of that. A small fraction of his consciousness seems to _want_ this, _want_ to know if Draco’s prick will even fit inside him, if it will hurt him, tear him open to accommodate the girth. Harry’s stomach roils at the thought of that, sending another violent shiver down his spine and he feels the heat of his skin flushing with embarrassment and humiliation.

“Please stop,” he begs, but his lips don’t seem to be moving in time with the words falling from them. “Malfoy.” _Draco,_ his mind supplies, but Harry pushes that thought aside. Familiarity will earn him no favours in his current situation.

Wand. Where in the fuck is his wand? His thoughts are too uncooperative, mind and body completely discordant.

Harry tries to separate his thoughts, to compartmentalise them so that he can concentrate on one segment at a time. He knows that he’s in Malfoy’s captivity, that he’s wandless, under a spell or drugged — perhaps even poisoned. His limbs are heavy and his skin over-sensitive, amplifying every touch, every degree of external temperature. There’s a nauseating feeling of malaise.

His thoughts echo throughout his consciousness until Malfoy’s voice breaks through once again, pulling Harry out of his mind — out of his fucking _mind_ — and bringing him back into the sharp reality of his situation.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard,” Malfoy says.

Harry can only whimper in protest, unable to find the right words to attempt another plea with Malfoy.

Fingers card through his hair almost affectionately and Harry is even more confused when he feels Malfoy press a kiss to his shoulder, mouth hotly at Harry’s nape.

He straightens again, hand pushing between Harry’s shoulder blades until his chest is flat against the clouds beneath him, and with the press of a knee, Malfoy forces Harry’s legs apart and settles between them. Vicious fingers bruise his hips as Malfoy pulls Harry back onto his lap. The momentary flash of relief that Harry’s burning and tired limbs are no longer holding him up is quickly driven away by the press of fingers, hot and wet, against his arsehole. He’s awash with a violent shame as Malfoy none too slowly pushes one inside Harry’s body, twisting and prodding, stretching him roughly.

It hurts, but he knows it’s not as much as it likely would had he not been drugged with whatever mind-altering poison Malfoy forced on him. Harry’s choked sob is dragged out of him mostly by the force of his own shame and only partly pain and discomfort.

“So fucking tight,” Malfoy whispers brokenly. Words seem to be easier understood now with the added physical sensations helping to ground Harry, giving him something to concentrate on.

Slowly, Malfoy slides his finger in and out of Harry’s hole, crooking it and dragging against the inner walls on each retreat. It isn’t painful anymore, not now that Malfoy seems to have found some secret spot inside Harry that ignites his entire body with reluctant pleasure, and Harry feels tears prickling at his eyes at the realisation that he may actually _like_ what Malfoy is doing to him, that he may _enjoy_ being filled by the other man.

When Malfoy slips another finger into Harry’s channel, the burn returns, but only briefly. Harry’s senses seem to be magnified. He can feel everything from Malfoy’s knuckles to the smoothly manicured edge of short fingernails inside him. Malfoy splays his other hand against Harry’s arse cheek, holding him wide open as he finger fucks him.

“Mmm,” Malfoy hums. “Finally loosening up for me.”

A third finger slips in alongside the others, and Harry reasons that Malfoy is at least somewhat right; his muscles must be relaxing, physical discomfort entirely absent now, a hesitant pleasure in its place.

Malfoy pulls his fingers out of Harry with a filthy squelch, presses hot hands over his arse, uses thumbs to spread Harry apart. Hissing in a sharp breath, he presses one thumb into Harry, murmurs something to himself, then spits on Harry’s hole before pushing the other thumb in. He alternates, sliding one in and then the other, prising Harry open, pulling him apart.

Harry unwittingly makes a sound of obscene pleasure, biting his lip in an attempt to stop it as soon as he realises. Malfoy hears, though. Of course he does.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says, tugging at Harry’s slick rim as he drags his thumbs out of him completely. The blunt head of his cock replaces them, pushing against Harry’s loosened hole, but not inside.

Harry still doesn’t think it’ll fit, regardless of Malfoy’s preparation. He tries to jerk forward, to flinch away, but still his body is not in accordance with his mind.

“I want you to fuck yourself on my cock, Harry. I want to feel you sliding over me,” Malfoy’s voice is unsteady, but still seems to hold some sharp edges. He wraps an arm around Harry’s waist, the other circling from under Harry’s arm up across his chest to his shoulder. He pulls Harry up onto his knees, back pressed to Malfoy’s chest and Harry feels the incredible stretch of a thick cock breaching him. “I’m not fucking a corpse here. If I wanted you so unresponsive, I would have given you the Draught of Living Death.”

Harry wants to fall forward again, onto his hands, to wriggle his way off of Malfoy’s cock before it’s too late, but the arms that are wrapped so tightly around him, holding nearly all of his weight, won’t release him.

“Now,” says Malfoy, voice commanding. He follows his words with a sharp nip to Harry’s neck, a breathy moan, a wet tongue.

Obediently, Harry sinks back into Malfoy’s lap, slowly, every inch stretching him beyond capacity until he thinks maybe he really _has_ been split open. Harry cries out as he’s fully seated, throwing his head back against Malfoy’s shoulder and trembling violently. He can feel him inside _everywhere_ as if Malfoy’s cock has reshaped Harry’s body to accommodate it; swollen head ploughing into him, stretching a pathway for the rigid shaft, pulsing, thick veins sliding against Harry’s sensitive inner walls.

Harry chokes out another sob, darkness closing in over his vision. He’s jerked and jostled as Malfoy moves beneath him, bends, stretches, reaches for something. Hot tears stream down Harry’s face but he still can’t move, can’t even see aside from tiny flecks of glitter flashing in the darkness of his sight. Vaguely, he registers a thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s dying. There’s a voice in his ear again, angry and demanding, cursing. Malfoys chest jumps as if the sob Harry hears come from him is actually real. And then there’s something being pressed against Harry’s lips, parting them. He doesn’t know what it is, but it wants inside and Harry is certain that nothing else will fit anywhere. _Inside_ is not an option. He’s too full. Can’t take anything else into his body even if it _is_ as small as a pebble.

When Harry’s vision returns to him, he’s lying on his back in the soft pile of pillows, angry grey eyes glaring down at him. Harry smiles, reaches a hand up to move blond hair out of his lover’s face, but his hand is promptly slapped away.

“Fuck you, Harry,” Draco says, voice so full of anger that it drags Harry out of his daze. He lifts himself up onto his elbows, blinking away the blurry remnants of the potion.

“I’m not playing these fucking games with you anymore,” Draco hisses, eyes so full of pain that Harry feels a sharp twinge of guilt for what he’s put him through. “I thought you were going to fucking _die_ on me.” Draco’s voice breaks as he blinks back tears, reaching a shaky hand out to touch Harry, dragging his fingertips tenderly over every inch of him as if to ensure himself that Harry is real, that he’s alive. Harry wraps his arms around Draco, pulls him down on top of him and presses a gentle kiss to his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have known the potion wasn’t ready yet.”

Draco shakes his head, pulls back far enough to look into Harry’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s ready. You aren’t taking it again. _Ever_. It felt like you weren’t even here. Like I was fucking raping you. Like I was _killing_ you.”

Harry strokes Draco’s hair back, reaches up to kiss his lips. He doesn’t tell Draco that he felt the exact same way, that he was sure he was going to die, that he was being violated by his childhood enemy. No. That confirmation won’t help anything. It’ll only add to how terrible Draco is feeling for going along with Harry’s stupid plan in the first place. Instead, he repeats his sincere apology, promises not to experiment with underdeveloped sensation potions anymore, and continues to kiss away the reluctance and anger from Draco’s lips.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Draco’s mouth when finally he begins to relax, and Harry knows it will be recognised for what it is; a _thank you for trying_ , a _thank you for loving me_ , and a _thank you for being clever enough to bring a Bezoar in case something went terribly wrong_.

He wraps his legs around Draco’s hips, welcoming him back into his body with a soft moan, grateful for the familiar feeling of a perfect fit he’s known for years rather than the intrusion it felt like only moments before. Draco trembles as he rocks into Harry, face buried in the crook of his neck and Harry knows he’s crying, or at least, damn close. He knows it’s going to take a lot of reassurance to make things right after this, to bring Draco out of this guilt he’s no doubt going to be lost in.

Their sex life is good — better than good — it’s mind-blowing. But once in a while, Harry convinces his husband to try out different potions with him that are meant to enhance certain aspects of their sexual experiences. This one was only meant to heighten physical sensations, not to fog his mind and cloud his memories. Harry arches up into Draco, dragging his hands down the flexing muscles in his back.

He knows he’ll have to Pensieve the memory for Luna to add to her notes, letting her know exactly how far off the mark she is with this one, but he doesn’t plan on telling Draco just how close he came this time.

Harry pushes all thoughts of potions and death from his mind, focusing everything he has on enjoying the feeling of Draco moving on him, in him, filling him in all the most satisfying ways. Draco comes quietly, body tense and breath shaky and broken against Harry’s neck, rather than the usual litany of curse words that fall from his soft lips when he spills into Harry. He forces a hand between their bodies, but doesn’t bother moving off of Harry to make room as he wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock and pulls him off in a few short strokes that Harry is _sure_ he doesn’t deserve.

Eventually, Draco falls asleep that way, Draped over Harry, soft prick still inside, until the sunlight streaming through the curtains in their room has faded to pinks and oranges. When his breathing pattern changes and Harry knows he’s waking up again, he brings him fully round to this side of consciousness with kisses and nips and whispers of love and appreciation, slow drag of hands against soft, pale skin, until Draco is fully hard inside of Harry again.

 


End file.
